~ Life as a Reform Jew-by-Choice

Category Archives: Life Stuff

“[One] must fill [one’s] life with meaning, meaning is not automatically given to life. It is hard work to fill one’s life with meaning.”

I stumbled upon this quote, taken from Chaim Potok’s brilliant masterpiece, “The Chosen,” as I pursued the Internet and as I sat at my computer, I began to cry. Potok, in his simple yet eloquent way, articulated beautifully what I’ve been feeling for months.

Let me be clear – I’m not questioning my faith or my marriage. Judaism truly gives my soul purpose and I love my wife with all my heart. The “meaning” that I’ve been so desperately trying to discover in my life is something outside of the things I know to be true (both my faith and my marriage), something that will challenge my mind and cause my heart to dance and while there are times I believe I’ve found the elusive “meaning,” there are times when the “hard work” involved is greater than my body can withstand.

Since this past summer, I’ve had trouble with my knees. Initially, my right knee was periodically sore and a prescription anti-inflammatory all but made the problem disappear. Unfortunately, a nasty fall tore the meniscus in my left knee and left me facing surgery in August. After a series of MRIs and x-rays and despite what turned out to be unnecessary surgery I was diagnosed with degenerative osteoarthritis, an extremely painful condition that has left both my knees without cartilage and made knee-replacement surgery an absolute necessity. However, before a surgeon will agree to the surgery, I must lose at least 20% of my body weight which in-and-of-itself is a tremendous struggle for me.

The pain I experience is constant and is currently controlled with a narcotic pain-reliever. I will not (and legally can’t) drive and/or function while taking the drug so throughout the day I make do with Tylenol and walking very deliberately and very slowly. Fortunately, my insurance company finally authorized a series of three injections (directly into my knee) of a drug called Orthovisc that will hopefully surround my knees with a gel-like fluid, easing the pain I experience (the first injection was painful and after nearly a week, I’m still sore but can walk slightly better; injection number two is this Friday).

What does this have to do with finding “meaning?” It complicates the hard work. It’s all I can think about. It creates a cloak of depression that acts as a barrier between what I am physically able to do and the things I know I should do to help me achieve my goals. It infiltrates my thought process and makes concentration an exercise in futility. And it keeps me from focusing on the things that, at 50, I should be focused on. Instead of working at tasks that give my life “meaning,” I work at making it through the day so I can come home, take a pill, and stop hurting.

In an odd way, Potok’s words give me a sense of hope. Something tells me that if I am able to endure my current physical challenges, I have the capacity to one day work hard enough to indeed fill MY life with the “meaning” I not only want but so desperately need.

Six months is a long time to say goodbye – or at least it seems like a long time. When I initially received the letter announcing that one of the Rabbis at my shul would be leaving in six months (and the other Rabbi in a year – but that’s another post), I was both surprised and saddened but I told myself that I’d have six months to get used to the idea. That first service after receiving the letter was tough – I had a hard time looking up from the Siddur and just hearing the Rabbi’s voice brought me to tears. Gradually, however, things got better. After all, I reasoned, six months was a long time. So, I put it out of my mind and continued on as if nothing had really changed – or was about to.

A week or so ago, reality began to seep back into my consciousness with the announcement of a going-away celebration. This was followed by a reminder that one of the Rabbi’s last services would be held just a few weeks from now. Suddenly, I became acutely aware of the fact that six long months had somehow become one very short month and now, I must begin to come to terms with the fact that before the “official” start of summer, the Rabbi will be gone.

I met Rabbi FS several years ago when I initially began the formal process for conversion. I was attending the required Introduction to Judaism class at a different synagogue and Rabbi FS was a substitute for the Rabbi that normally taught the class. It was a two-hour, one-time meeting and I remember thinking that besides having excellent teaching skills, Rabbi FS had something else that I felt “connected” to – a true passion for Judaism that expressed itself through both the forcefulness of the words and the animation of the facial expressions that radiated naturally from the Rabbi . At the time, I couldn’t have known what the future had in store for my life or that this Rabbi would be a part of it.

The death of my Dad and the purchase of the house I grew up in brought me to the synagogue that I am now a member of. When I realized that Rabbi FS was one of two Rabbis at the shul, I was both surprised and delighted. As I continued to move toward my conversion and got to know Rabbi FS I realized why, a few years before in that one Introduction to Judaism class, I had felt a connection to the Rabbi. It was the passion.

For years, I had attempted to articulate to anyone that would listen why I felt so driven to study Judaism. Throughout my undergraduate and graduate studies, each time I answered the question, “What’s your major?” I looked for a glimmer of understanding and recognition in the eyes of the person or persons staring back at me and for years I was met with the same puzzled, glazed look and the familiar refrain, “What are you going to do with that [degree]?” After the first conversation I had with the Rabbi, I knew I had found someone else that not only understood my passion but shared it as well. I no longer had to keep my excitement over a point made by Robert Alter to myself or hide my enthusiasm over discovering a brilliant Hebrew pun in Torah and through study, sermons, conversation, and written word, I was given the opportunity to learn from the Rabbi things I never imagined I was capable of learning.

It is simply impossible for me to convey, in one blog post, the impact Rabbi FS has made on my life and the loss I will feel after this incredible person has left. I know the Rabbi has touched each and every person at my shul and I know that the going-away celebrations and final service will be filled with people who love, respect, and will genuinely miss Rabbi FS. I know that the next few weeks will be an emotional whirlwind for the Rabbi and I know that out of the hundreds of members of my shul, I will get lost in the crowd. I knew, six months ago, that saying goodbye to Rabbi FS would be both logistically and emotionally difficult for me and for the last six months, I’ve been trying to figure out how I would do it. Sometime along the way, I began working on this post.

Thank you, Rabbi, for what you’ve taught me about God and thank you for showing me what it means to be fully Jewish. Thank you for sharing your passion with me and thank you for allowing me to share my passion with you. Thank you for giving me the courage and confidence to do things I never thought I could (or would) do and thank you for helping me become a better person. Thank you for being uniquely and genuinely who you are and for being unafraid to show that person to those around you. And finally, thank you for changing my life in ways you will never know. Six months is a long time to say goodbye – but not nearly long enough.

I had intended to post something on my long-neglected blog before 2010’s end however, time slipped away from me and as I looked at the calendar today and noticed it was already mid-January I began to panic. Then I realized that my last post was October 15th! Looking back over the past three months I can identify many reasons for not taking the time to blog… ironically enough, many of those experiences are the exact reason I began my blog in the first place. So, without further explanation here are some things I’ll write about over the next few days, weeks, and months:

The discovery of a tumor in my brain (benign – whew!).

The announcement that BOTH Rabbis at my shul will be leaving, one this year, the other next year.

The worsening of my migraines – both in frequency and severity.

The side-effects of the new medication I’m taking for migraines (I shake as though I am experiencing some type of withdrawal).

My experiences teaching the weekly Torah Portion at my shul.

My continued battle with food/weight.

So for those that have followed me, I’m back after a small hiatus. Thanks for sticking with me. For those that may have just discovered this blog, keep reading. I promise you won’t be disappointed.

Four years ago, I lost my Dad. It was unexpected and caught me completely by surprise. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as helpless and scared as when the Doctors told us that the infection had just spread too quickly and was beyond treating. When my Mom died, Dad was there to take care of the “grown-up” stuff; he coordinated the memorial service, made the arrangements to go to Iowa for her burial, and took care of all the other things that have to be taken care of when one loses a spouse. As I stood at his bedside, I realized that all the planning and arranging would now fall on my shoulders. Suddenly, I would become the “grown-up” when, in many ways, I felt as if I were 16 again.

I’m not what anyone would consider a Daddy’s Girl. For as long as I can remember, my dad and I butted heads over almost everything. Despite that, there are many things about my relationship with him that I will never forget:

He took me Trick-or-Treating every Halloween when I was a kid. When we got home, he would dump out my candy and go through it, picking out the pieces he liked, saying, “You have to share some of this with your mother and I.”

On the 4th of July he’d take my sisters and I to the best firework shows and “oooo and ahhh” right along with us over the really big ones.

He taught me how to fly a kite and told me it wasn’t any reason to cry just because I couldn’t get it off the ground.

When I wanted to learn how to play the guitar, he bought me one and paid for lessons and when I wanted to quit because after two lessons I couldn’t play anything by Led Zeppelin, he made me continue practicing and going to lessons for the rest of the month.

He made me sit at the dining room table for an hour every night and practice my handwriting. To this day, I can’t read my own handwriting, probably because all I did was crab and moan for an hour about how much I hated it.

He taught me how to shoot a basketball (“Com’on – You’re not a little girl! You’re strong enough to shoot it from above your head, not from your chest”), throw a football (“Put your fingers between the laces when you hold the ball”), field a softball (“Two hands for beginners”), bowl a strike (“You want to shake hands with the head pin, then pull your thumb out of the ball first and follow through until your thumb touches your ear”), shoot a 22 and a 38 (“SQUEEZE the trigger, don’t PULL the trigger”), hammer a nail (“Come down slowly at first until you’re sure the nail and hammer are lined up”), change a tire (“No one is going to do this for you, so you better learn how”), mow the grass (“Mow in a straight line and I better not come home and see clippings all over the lawn”) and drive the family car (“Line up with the center line and SLOW DOWN”).

He never missed a Valentine’s day. When I went through the stage that most adolescent girls my age did, thinking chocolate caused blemishes, he got me a two-inch tall candle of Garfield the Cat that said, “I love you.” I still have the candle sitting on my desk at work.

He took me and 5 of my best friends to Magic Mountain for the day when I turned 16.

He picked me up at midnight when I wanted to stay late roller skating and at 2 in the morning after Halloween Haunt at Knott’s Berry Farm.

He came to every basketball game, softball game, track meet, Police Explorer event or special program I was in.

He never came home from an out-of-town trip without bringing me something from where he’d been.

I know that I was not an easy child to raise and I wasn’t much fun to be around after I got older, either. I spent a lot of years being angry with my Dad because he seemed to disagree with everything I said and did and he and I spent two or three years not speaking because we couldn’t say two words to each other without the conversation turning into a yelling match. When we finally made peace with each other, I realized that I was the one that had been wrong and I was the one that had to learn how to accept him for who he was. I also realized that who he was wasn’t the bad guy I’d made him out to be. I always swore that I would never grow up to be like him. The funny thing is, I’m almost 50 and I realize I’m more like him now than I’ve ever been and in more ways than I ever imagined. Somehow, that dosen’t seem like such a bad thing anymore.

I don’t know what happens when people die, but I hope that wherever he is, my Dad knows how much I regret the time I spent being angry with him, treating him like he didn’t exist, and thinking I knew everything there was to know about anything. Like the saying goes, I very much wish that I knew then what I know now. What I do know is that my Dad died too young and I wasn’t really prepared for him to go.

1. Your behaviour in the courtroom today was rude, condescending, and hurtful.

2. Yes, I DO know what a prosecutor is and surprisingly enough, I understand that the prosecutor works for the District Attorney.

3. Next time we see one another (if there is a next time) please don’t look me up and down. I don’t judge your skirt and 3-inch heels so please don’t judge my pants and button-down shirt.

4. I’m surprised they didn’t cover “Common Courtesy” in law school. Generally when someone asks your name, the polite response is to smile and extend your hand while speaking your name. The IMPOLITE response is to ask me what I’m doing in the courtroom.

5. I understand that you have a JD AND a Bar Card but don’t assume that I’m not just as educated and intelligent as you are. You don’t know me and therefore you should refrain from making assumptions.

6. Does it bother you that I cried as I rode the elevator from the 10th to the 2nd floor? Are you ashamed that you humiliated me in front of other people? If not, you should be.

7. I’m a good and kind person and don’t deserve to be treated in a disrespectful manner.

I invite you to think about how your actions may affect other people. Ask yourself if the way you treated me today is the way YOU would like to be treated. I doubt it is.

I hate being sick. As soon as I feel the least bit run-down I’m the first one to run to the drug store and buy ANYTHING that will help me feel “normal” again. That being said, I generally try to avoid getting sick by attempting to avoid germs.

Part of my job is working in our DNA collection office. Generally, individuals are offered reduced charges if the agree to give a sample of their DNA which will then be entered into our system and sometimes into the state system. Working in the collection center is not my favorite thing to do but 3 times per month I’m required to be “on-call” which means I have to be available should one of our four centers need extra help. Today, I was “on-call.”

I’m the type of person that carries antibacterial liquid in my purse, wipes the grocery cart handle before using it, doesn’t like to touch door handles in ladies restrooms, avoids touching the escalator railing, etc., etc. I didn’t realize how fanatical I’ve become until I walked into the DNA collection office today and started to process the individuals that walked through the door. Suddenly I became acutely aware of all the germs that I imagined were swirling about in the air.

Someone sneezed and didn’t cover his mouth, a woman coughed and DID cover her mouth but then used my pen to sign her form, a parent sat her child on the counter where the child proceeded to put her hands in her mouth and touch the counter, and I had to touch a dozen forms of identification that had been in wallets, pockets, socks, shoes, and the hands of children. I used an entire bottle of antibacterial liquid and 30 or 40 antibacterial wipes. And then I sneezed. Twice.

On the way home from work, I stopped at the drug store and bought some cold medicine, vitamin C drops, and Airborne (which I’ve had 3 tablets of). The minute Scully’s Mom walked through the door, I announced, “I’m sick.”

I’m going to bed early tonight, but not before I take a shower and take some cold medicine (maybe I can nip it in the bud before it gets worse). Maybe it’s all in my head – but maybe it’s not.

I hate being sick.

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